


Smash Into You

by wingsofbadass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Badass Jean, Barista Marco, Christmas Season, Dorkiness, Fluff, M/M, Not your usual Coffee Shop AU, jm secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco thinks he is just closing up the coffee shop on a regular night, until a guy with an Undercut comes crashing into his life, a whole world of madness in tow.</p><p>-</p><p>Written for the Jean Marco Secret Santa 2014!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smash Into You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriecmoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriecmoney/gifts).



> This is my Secret Santa gift for carriecmoney! Happy holidays, dear! I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> Many, many thanks to Laurel who helped me edit this mess into something presentable.

Thick flakes of white were dancing through the yellowish artificial light just outside the wide window, swirling softly, swaying with the breeze. The sky was an endless canvas of darkness spattered with dots of silvery brilliance, and Marco was sure if he were to go outside and let it envelop him right then, closing his eyes and just breathing everything in, the scent would be winter in its purest form, fresh and crisp and lovely. He could feel a childish kind of desire to run out the door and jump into a pile of snow take hold of him.

Alas, Marco was trapped inside, with nothing but the ever-present scent of coffee and Mariah Carey's festive singing as company. With a sigh, he tore his gaze from the nightly winter wonderland outside and returned to counting the cash in the register, letting the notes ruffle through his fingers as he mumbled numbers under his breath. 

It was Sunday, the last Advent before Christmas, and the coffee shop had been bursting with customers until late into the night, with people seeking to relax and warm up after a day of wrestling through the masses doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. It had been loud; in fact, only now did Marco get a chance to actually hear the seasonally appropriate music they'd been playing. He rolled his eyes as All I Want for Christmas Is You ended and the unmistakable first bars of Rocking Around The Christmas Tree wafted through the cluttered shop. 

In a kind of obvious effort to stand out from the corporate coffee places littering the city, the owner of _Cuppa Trost_ , Hanji, had decorated it in a way that seemed like a mixture of over-excited kindergartener and esoteric old lady. The tiny round tables were strewn around the place in a seemingly random pattern (it wasn't random at all, of course, although everyone had stopped trying to understand Hanji's alleged order of things), surrounded by deliberately mismatched chairs that were an accumulation of flea market treasures and gifts from friends. Same went for the wide array of cups and saucers, for the decorations on the wall, for the colorful tins on the shelves holding different kinds of coffees and teas, basically everything. The only thing that was as pristine and clinical as everywhere else, and thus kind of out of place, was the now empty display case.

Marco wrapped a rubber band around a stack of five-dollar-bills and jotted down the sum into his list, before stuffing it into the black banking bag with the rest of the cash. Despite himself, he found himself humming along to the stupid song, even swaying his hips a little. It was just so damn catchy. For a second he considered dropping what he was doing to dance around behind the counter a little, before he remembered what had happened to the Prime Minister in Love, Actually. Maybe not...

After he'd finished the whole cash register business, all that was left was sweeping the shop, always his least favorite part. Marco reached for the CD player on top of the shelf and turned off the holiday horror, switching to the radio instead. The synthesized tones of the trashy 80s station that greeted him were so soothing after hours and hours of Christmas music that Marco let out a theatrical whimper. With at least a little more motivation than before, he went to raise all the chairs onto their tables.

The movement was a familiar, practiced one. Grabbing a chair, flipping it mid-swing and setting it on the table top gently to avoid scratching the wood was blissfully brainless work that allowed him to let his mind settle. Or at least wander away from the flurry of prices and complicated orders and measurements, and drift to comforting thoughts of his bed and the quiet of his apartment.

Looking outside, Marco noticed that the snowfall had picked up again, the flakes no longer drifting peacefully downward like feathers on a breeze, but rather playfully racing each other to the ground, eager to join their countless siblings on the almost undisturbed mounds of fluffiness on the street. Another thing to look forward to: being the first one to set foot onto that flawless blanket of glittery white, watch his boots disappear and leave marks with each indentation of his feet.

Just as he was grabbing the broom for his last task of the evening, Marco heard the first tell-tale drum beats of his favorite 80s song and there was no fighting the huge smile that stretched across his face. He bit his lip, looking outside for a split second and seeing nobody, and decided to just not give a damn.

He probably looked utterly ridiculous as he began to work the floor with the broom, his hips swaying back and forth with each sweep, bobbing his head like a dork. It was also entirely likely that he was just pointlessly moving the dirt around with his dancing and twirling between glittery garlands and fairy lights and the large wreath hanging from the ceiling, but he couldn't bring himself to care much. He was alone and he'd had a long day and he deserved this fun.

The smile on Marco's face grew wider as the chorus neared and he took a deep breath before joining in loudly.

“ _Taaake oooon meee..._ ”

Even Elvis himself would surely have been proud of the way Marco spun on the spot, catching the broom handle before it could clatter to the hardwood panels and propping it up in front of himself to sing into the tip fervently.

“ _Taaake meee oooooon..._ ”

He felt almost serene in that moment, just him, the broom, the music and the sparkling lights, matching the flakes' merry dance outside. Marco didn't hear the loud grunting, didn't feel the ground shake under heavy steps, sending snow flying in all directions, approaching fast. The panted curses of the person in pursuit didn't reach him. All he felt was this joy tingling up his spine and jittering through his veins.

“ _Iiiiii'll beeee goooo-aaaaaaaahhhhh!_ ”

With a thunderous crash, the shop windows were blown inwards by an enormous dark shape that was blasted into the room and sent smashing into a group of tables. Marco had dropped into a crouch and curled in on himself while shards of glass and wooden splinters in all conceivable sizes rained down upon him. Soon he glanced up to see a huge, vaguely humanoid creature writhing on top of the pieces of furniture, wood cracking and breaking beneath it, while its horrible, furious growls drowned out the high-pitched voice still spilling weakly from the radio.

Marco was gaping in disbelief at the grotesque figure squirming in the middle of the room like some enormous insect that had been flipped onto its back. What the fuck _was_ that thing? He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but it made no difference in the bizarre sight before him. Had Marco inhaled too much cinnamon or something?

“Oh, fuck.”

Marco's head whipped to the side, where a guy was standing in the shattered window, obviously winded, hands propped against his knees as he tried to catch his breath. The bow and quiver slung across his back contrasted sharply with his otherwise mundane appearance. The guy was wearing skinny jeans and a well-kept undercut, for god's sake.

At the sound of his voice, the creature roared in absolute wrath, resuming its attempts to get back on its feet. Marco doubted the thing would even fit into the room upright. From what he could see, it was at least twice as tall as the door frame and as wide as a fridge. The double-doored kind. He watched in horror as the weird thing struggled onto its knees, shaking its head like a dog trying to get rid of water, sallow grayish skin shifting over the muscles in its neck.

The stranger mirrored the creature, straightening up slowly, deliberately, and reaching back to draw an arrow in a fluid, practiced movement of his arms. Once it was nocked, the guy set a booted foot forward, his eyes fixed on the growling giant, completely untroubled by the crunching of glass under his soles. His breathing was so measured, so sure, that it calmed Marco. He looked between the two intruders as Undercut carefully inched forward, completely silent now and showing no sign of having noticed the lone barista, frozen in shock in the middle of the shop.

Several seconds of almost tangible stillness ticked by, counted only by the beat of Marco's heart booming in his ears.

When the monster lashed out at the archer with a large, meaty fist, Marco couldn't stifle the gasp of horror that escaped his lips. He saw the other guy's gaze flicker to meet his for the tiniest of moments before he jumped aside, dodging the sweeping gesture coming towards him. The hand was larger than any of the tables it smashed in its wake, sending more splinters and chair stuffing flying everywhere. Undercut landed on one of the only pieces of furniture that were still intact – a low cabinet that held blankets for cold days, which Marco had just folded up earlier – his feet touching down on the wood lightly, gracefully, like a dancer's.

Marco stared, mesmerized, as the archer brought his arms back and fired the arrow at the irritated thing, hitting it in the shoulder. Before the creature had time to do more than give a howl of pain, another arrow was already nocked and sent soaring through the air with a whistling sound, seemingly hitting its mark on the beast's wide thigh. Instead of attempting to attack his opponent again, the huge, apparently dumb thing swiped its hands over the protruding arrows, breaking off the shafts close to its disgusting skin. Now that he took a closer look, Marco realized there were already several similar wounds strewn across the body, oozing with pitch black blood, evidence that it had been hit at least half a dozen times. It didn't seem to have been in any critical places, though, he noticed with a frown.

"Come on, you ugly piece of crap," the archer groused, still perched on top of the cabinet. He reached his dominant hand back again to pull another arrow from his quiver. "Don't make me kill you."

So he didn't mean to kill it. A gust of fear blew through Marco's chest at the realization. Was that guy insane? Why wouldn't he want to wipe out that revolting – whatever it was?

"Hey, Freckles," the guy called, and since his eyes were still fixed on his prey, it took Marco a moment to realize that he was being addressed. When he made an inquiring sound that sounded ridiculously high-pitched, terrified, even to his own ears, Undercut let out a little snort before continuing. "Are you gonna stand there all night and get eaten? You should run on home."

"What about you?" Marco found himself asking. He watched the other guy's arched eyebrows rise up in surprise, although he still didn't take his eyes off the monster. And he was quite right not to let it out of his sight, since it chose that exact moment to start another attempt to hit his pursuer. Its fist flew through the air, decidedly faster this time, and came crashing down on the guy. With a strangled yelp, Undercut tossed himself sideways out of harm's way again, narrowly escaping being smashed with the poor cabinet that had once belonged to Hanji's grandmother.

For the first time since this unlikely pair of fighters had burst into Cuppa Trost, Marco found himself moving, unfreezing. Hearing a pained grunt and a curse from Undercut had him reaching out unconsciously, taking a step forward. What he meant to do, he had no idea. The guy was cowering on the floor, his bow having slid from his grip and skidded just out of his reach, and he was clutching his ankle in obvious pain.

Another growl rose from the creature's throat, filling the icy air inside the coffee shop with a putrid smell that reminded Marco a little too much of decay. It shifted on its knees, still unable to stand up in the cramped space, turning toward the unarmed figure and bumping its ugly head on the ceiling. The guy on the floor raised his gaze to his adversary with a fiery confidence in his eyes. The light brown of his eyes was blazing with an unspoken challenge, an unmistakable promise to keep fighting until the very end with his head held high. He unlocked one hand from around his leg and drew a long dagger from his belt. In the shadow of their adversary, it looked tiny, and so did he.

Marco wasn't quite sure what he was thinking. All he knew was he couldn't watch that brave soul go down like this. His breath was already coming in quick, panicked pants as he grabbed the broom handle he had dropped nearby and held it up shakily in some poor imitation of a sword.

Again, he saw the now bowless bowman look at him briefly and this time his sharp eyes widened in horror.

"What are you –"

Marco lunged forward recklessly, his mind absolutely blank, with no clue what he was about to do. In the movies, these heroics were mostly accompanied by a fearless war cry, but Marco had no idea where those people even took the necessary breath from. He felt as though he'd been punched in the chest, robbed of his voice, and a pathetic wheezing was the only thing floating past his lips.

The world seemed to slow down around him, as though it was watching him through exasperated, narrowed eyes and going: “really, dude?”, and Marco was overly aware of everything around him. Of the snow now mercilessly streaming into the building, carried along by the icy wind cutting and biting at his flushed skin, flakes melting as soon as they touched him or the still warm wooden surfaces. Of the look of utter panic in Undercut's eyes as he watched him, completely disregarding the snarling and drooling thing lunging at him. Of the revolting smell coming off the creature. Of the blood rushing in his ears. Of the cold dread in his chest.

And yet, it felt like no time had passed at all between the moment he had charged forward and the moment he flung his sorry excuse for a weapon against this monstrosity.

When the broom handle came crushing down against a fleshy part of the creature and the impact shivered up his arms, Marco was shocked out of his trance. In that second he became aware of three things. First, he had just smacked a monster's huge butt. Second, he hadn't done any damage at all. And third, the monster had now noticed him.

It froze, its paw raised and poised to slam down on the archer, who was still staring at Marco, his lips parted slightly. The impact as it whammed into Marco was dull, more surprising than painful, and he felt himself be thrown backwards, flung against the high counter, his head cracking painfully against the wood.

There was a ringing in his ears. Dazed, Marco lifted his blurry gaze, his head lolling against the paneling behind him. He could see the thing's face now, the rotting teeth in its revolting maw, the dumb expression etched into its rough features, the muddiness of its tiny eyes. Everything about that visage seemed too broad, filling his vision and swallowing all of his perception. Marco had the sudden thought that he did not want this sight to be his last one.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He heard the cursing as if from very far away.

Before he could wonder what had become of Undercut, he saw the monster squirm uncomfortably, a dumb grunt flowing out of its gullet as it swatted at something over his shoulder. A moment later, the bleached strands of an undercut appeared on its other shoulder, and Marco watched disbelievingly as the guy climbed up the column of that thick neck, using a fleshy ear as a handhold.

With another terrifying growl, the beast grabbed for the nuisance holding onto its ear. Undercut seemed to make a split-second decision. Freeing a hand and drawing his dagger again, he plunged the blade into its ear, sawing off a chunk of lobe with a grunt of effort. Immediately, blood shot out of the wound, spraying over the guy's arms, black and thick and putrid, splattering up his neck and face.

Steam rose from the spots where blood had hit Undercut's pale skin, hissing as it burned him, and he tumbled from the monster's shoulder with a strangled cry of pain. Marco winced at the impact when the guy fell to the floor on his hands and knees, panting and wrestling his smoking jacket off, using the inside lining to wipe at his face.

Having gotten rid of one annoyance, the creature zeroed back in on Marco. His heart thrumming in his throat, he scrambled for the broom handle that had been knocked out of his grip, only to find that it had been broken in two. With trembling fingers he picked up the upper half, holding the ragged, splintered end up towards the ceiling.

Marco gulped and stared up into the monstrous face above him that was inching closer and closer, the horrible smell coming from it almost knocking him sideways. Oh, shit.

“Don't take your eyes off it, don't move,” he was instructed, and he struggled to keep his gaze straight ahead, not letting it drift to the source of that calming voice. He failed. His eyes locked with Undercut's and then the monster was lunging. Pathetically, Marco braced his arms over his head, ducking as though trying to become smaller, so small that he couldn't be reached. The hit came from an unexpected direction, however.

A bony body knocked into his side, arms circling around his waist and throwing him to the ground once more. A gasp flew from his lips as his elbow hit the wood at just the wrong angle, sending searing pain up his arm. There was only a second of warm weight on him, before he was being yanked up again by the stranger. Marco watched him pick up the other half of the broom, inspecting the ragged end and giving it a “meh, good enough” kind of grimace, before turning to the monster that was still recovering from having thrown its whole weight into a punch and fallen over again.

“Okay, so,” the guy panted, jaw clenching as he swallowed, “if we blind it, it'll be pretty much fucked.”

“Aren't _we_ pretty much fucked?”

He let out a humorless laugh like a bark and side-eyed Marco for a moment, before replying. “That's never stopped me. You in?” Marco gave a tense nod and received a grin that stretched the irritated splotches on his cheeks in return. “You take the right eye.”

And then he was facing that thing, drawing himself up and again reminding Marco of a lithe dancer, his body strangely elegant, surrounded by swirling snow flakes and shards of furniture, as he lifted the broom handle up like a spear. Marco held his with less grace, with both arms stretched in front of him. His knees were shaking.

Despite their different stances, the contrast in the way they held their shoulders and their chins, when the creature turned on them once more, emitted a menacing roar and descended on them, they moved in a peculiar synchronicity. They didn't wait for it to reach them. Instead, they both darted forward, and when that large hand came for them, Jean changed gears in an instant, plunging the wooden stick into the palm with a deep groan.

An awful wail of pain and fury seemed to shake the whole building, the very ground beneath their feet, and the beast froze up, giving Marco his one chance. Gathering all of his courage like a beggar scrambling for coins, he jumped up and drove the tip of the handle deep into an enormous eye. As soon as he felt the eyeball give and explode, expelling a load of gunk and blood from the cavity, Marco felt his new-found strength leave him. He fell and landed on his back, immediately crawling away from the repugnant sloshes of liquid cascading down onto the floor.

Furious howling tore at Marco's ears and he felt something like pity rise inside him when the thing slapped its uninjured hand to its eye in an oddly human gesture. His ally seemed to have no such feelings. His broom handle was left sticking out of the gray palm and he swiftly climbed up the arm, as easily as a child running up a slide on the playground. Before the monster could register what was happening, the dagger flashed in Undercut's hand once again before slashing savagely across the creature's throat.

Jumping off before he could come to any harm and landing in a crouch next to Marco, he raised his head in time to watch the thing stagger backwards with black blood shooting out of the torn open neck. As it fell, one arm flailed wildly, hand knocking into the shelf behind the counter, sending it all crashing down with a symphony of shattering porcelain, creaking boards and pained gurgling.

And then it was quiet. There was no sound to be heard apart from two young men's heavy breathing and the deep voice of Dave Gahan singing about how meaningless and forgettable words were.

Marco's eyes were wide, fixed on the gigantic corpse sprawled all across the suddenly tiny seeming coffee shop, amidst shattered mugs and memories. The rushing in his ears was growing louder by the second and a weird kind of numbness was rising up in his chest, a stark contrast to the frantic thrashing of his heart.

“What the _fuck_?” the guy next to him groused abruptly, his sharp voice only barely cutting through the thick fog that was settling on Marco's mind. “That was the most ridiculously _stupid_ thing I have ever seen! You almost killed us both! And you cost me – hey, are you okay?”

After a heavy swallow, Marco looked up to meet those bright amber eyes. There was not enough air in his lungs. He opened his mouth to reply _I don't know_ , but all that he managed to press past his lips was a thick whimper, as he watched the world tip sideways.

“Hey, hey, don't faint on me!” the voice cried, so much closer now and warm, colored with the faintest hint of something Marco couldn't identify but immediately wanted more of. Thin fingers were digging into his upper arms, holding him upright, but there was no preventing his head from falling forward, his forehead pressing against the comforting softness of another body. “Aaww, shit!”

Horrible, ragged gasps were tearing out of Marco's chest, his fuzzy mind registering nothing but the vague thought that he couldn't breathe. He felt himself slip onto his wobbly knees and he was ready to just keel over sideways but the hands were still there, holding on to him, refusing to let him float away from this terror in his chest and his mind.

“You gotta breathe, Freckles, come on!” the voice came again, pleading, fingers around his biceps tightening. All he could see was the dark hardwood floor between his thighs. “Breathe in through your nose. Please.”

He couldn't, oh god, he couldn't. Panicked, his hands came up to tear at his chest as though he could rip off the weight that was pressing down on his lugs, squashing him, crushing, crushing, crushing. He was sobbing now and still he couldn't draw any air.

One hand came up to his cheek, cold and rough against his cheek, but so gentle, and tipped his jaw up. Marco's watering eyes met bright ones and his gaze was frantic as it flitted over that face in front of him, searching for something, anything.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Undercut was saying, voice low and as shaky as Marco's own hands. He took a deep, deliberate breath through his long, thin nose and Marco tried to follow his example but it wouldn't work, it just couldn't – and then the boy in front of him was breathing out slowly, a breeze fanning out warmly over Marco's cheeks. And he started again.

It was so shaky, but this time Marco finally managed to take in the tiniest of breaths and oh, it soothed the ache in his chest. Almost as good as the wide, relieved smile that stretched over Undercut's face.

They kept breathing together, eyes locked and faces close, until Marco's body had stopped shivering and he became aware that this stranger's hand was still cradling his jaw, his thumb rubbing comforting circles over his cheek.

“God, Freckles, you scared the shit out of me.” His voice was soft, tiny.

“My name is Marco.”

“Jean.”

Jean held Marco's gaze for a couple of moments longer, before he looked to the side, where the disgusting corpse was still polluting the now crisp air with the powerful stink of decay. Marco had kind of forgotten about that.

“Uh, I need to call someone about a troll.”

Marco blinked and followed his gaze. “That's a troll?”

“A cave troll, to be specific, yeah,” Jean mumbled, drawing his lower lip between a row of straight teeth, thoughtful. “It would've been worth more alive, but what can you do?”

Marco lowered his eyes between his knees, where he'd twined his fingers, and swallowed. “Sorry for ruining that for you.”

Blond strands fluttered a little in the wind flowing through the torn open store front as Jean whipped his head back to face Marco.

“Don't apologize,” he said earnestly. “I was being stupid. And I probably would've died if it weren't for you.”

Marco had no idea what to say to that. He was spared the intensity of Jean's eyes when the guy looked down and wrestled a phone out of his tight pants. He swiped across the screen and selected a contact named _Mr. Wolf,_ before raising the phone to his ear. When Jean saw Marco's raised eyebrows, he flashed him a grin.

“Yeah, he's a Cleaner.”

With a quiet chuckle, Marco shifted his legs to prop them up in the narrow space between him and Jean, who was evidently a Tarantino fan, and rested his elbows on his knees. Jean was looking at the troll again, silent as he waited for the person to pick up and wincing when they did.

“I know it's past midnight, but I kinda have a situation,” he said carefully, all bravado gone. There was the faint sound of someone cursing at the other end of the line. “Dead cave troll,” Jean answered after a while. More ranting from Mr. Wolf. Jean pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and sighed, looking as though he was holding back a lot. “Listen, are you coming or not? … Cuppa Trost … Okay, see you in a bit.”

“Are you gonna have to see the principal in his office?” Marco asked after the call had been ended, his tone playful, hoping to chase away that look of worry that lingered on Jean's delicate features.

“Oh no! He's gonna call my parents for sure!” he shot back, cocky confidence and carelessness returning to his air, and it made Marco smile a little. Jean got up on his feet with a grunt and reached a hand down, offering help. Sliding his palm against Jean's felt almost familiar.

“So now what?” he asked after having been pulled up.

“Now,” Jean announced, “we wait.”

“In that case, would you like some coffee?”

It was to the quiet tones of Last Christmas wafting through the air with the snow flakes still invading the space of the coffee shop that Jean and Marco tiptoed their way through the war zone, Jean with a slight limp and Marco's arm as a support. Around the stinking troll they crept, dodging shards of glass and debris and puddles of black blood. When they reached the safety of the counter, Jean carefully cleaned the counter top of broken porcelain fragments with a swipe of his forearm, before swinging himself up to sit on the now clean surface.

Marco soon discovered that not a single ceramic cup had survived the collapse of the heavy shelf mounted atop the appliances. Digging around a little, he produced two paper cups and even a sharpie. Turning around to face Jean, who was watching him, his legs swinging endearingly and thudding slightly against the wooden panels, he uncapped the permanent marker and hovered the tip over the cup.

“Welcome to Cuppa Trost. What can I get you today?”

Jean laughed. “Is any of those even gonna work?” he asked, nodding towards the coffee makers just visible underneath the rubble.

“Probably not,” Marco admitted with a shrug, “but fortunately, we have another one in the staff room if we need it.”

“Ah. Well, in that case I'd like one of those Christmas-y ones.”

“Do you like gingerbread?”“Oh, yeah!” The child-like excitement on Jean's face was so adorable that it made Marco smile as he scribbled their names and orders on the cups. “What are you having?”

 “The same,” Marco replied, beginning to look around for the familiar bordeaux-colored tin containing the mix he needed. After assembling all the ingredients for the beverages and arranging the battered containers next to Jean on the counter, he tried out all the coffee machines and was delighted to see that the one in the middle was still functional. With a triumphant noise he set to work, Jean's quiet gaze on him driving the warmth up into his cheeks.

When the drinks were done, he found a couple of sleeves to slip the cups into and handed both of them to Jean, who raised a quizzical eyebrow. Marco held up one finger, signaling him to wait, and swung himself up on the counter next to his “customer”, crossing his legs underneath himself.

His knee was pressing against Jean's thigh but neither of them were moving.

Marco accepted his drink from Jean and took a careful sip, giving an appreciative sigh at the rich taste in unison with the guy next to him. He turned his head to the side with a smile and Jean started laughing.

“You have whipped cream on your nose,” he chortled and Marco quickly wiped it off with his free hand, sucking the sweet blob from the tip of his fingers. The way Jean's eyes lingered on his mouth was definitely not his imagination.

Sitting here like this, Marco finally had the chance to really look at Jean. At the curve of his lips. At the disheveled state of his dyed hair that was probably partly deliberate and partly troll-induced. At the exquisite slope of his jaw. At the elegant fingers curling around his coffee cup.

“So, why exactly were you chasing a cave troll through downtown Trost?” he asked conversationally.

“If I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

 Marco grimaced at him.

“Shit, that was so lame!” Jean slapped a hand to his face with an embarrassed laugh. Adorable. “Actually, that's my job. I catch supernatural creatures, bring them in and collect the money. They're worth more alive than dead, though.”

“Bring them in _where_?”

Jean bit his lower lip, which was apparently a habit of his, as he considered Marco for a moment. “Okay, don't spread this around, but the Police kind of have a special department for that.”

Marco almost dropped his latte. “No way! Like Men In Black?”

Jean grinned. “Yeah, only less dorky.”

“You sure about that, Jean?”

That earned Marco a light slap against his upper arm. “Is that the way to talk to your savior?”

“I'm pretty sure I'm the one who saved _you_.”

“That is an outrageous acc–”

“You gotta be fucking shitting me.”

Marco whipped around at the same time as Jean to see a guy standing in the wreckage that was once the storefront, the scowl on his face sinister enough to make Marco freeze. He was almost ridiculously short, clad completely in black from head to toe and wearing an aura of imminent doom.

“Yo, Levi!” Jean greeted cheerfully, only to falter at the icy look he received in response.

“What the fuck, Kirschstein?” the short guy barked. “Are you an amateur? How are we supposed to keep this one under wraps? By now, half of Trost must've seen this shit.”

“Things kinda got out of control,” Jean mumbled, fingers twitching anxiously around his coffee. Levi just snorted, turned around on the sidewalk and whipped out a phone.

“Erwin, would you come and _look at this shit_?!”

Marco turned back to look at Jean, his eyebrows raised. “Wow, he's intense.”

“Yeah... He'll calm down soon enough.”

 They could hear Levi ranting about the dead troll into the phone outside, before clambering into the shop and looking down at the splashes of troll blood in distaste. He seemed calmer now as he strolled through the debris, although the crease between his fine eyebrows was still etched deep.

“You know what? Just get out of here. We'll handle this,” he told Jean.

“What about my money?” Jean demanded, and for a moment, Levi looked like he was gonna snap him in half like a twig. “... Right.”

Jean slipped down from the counter, leaving behind his empty cup, and silently motioned for Marco to follow his lead. He got his coat from the staff room and came back to Jean inspecting the sad remains of his leather jacket. There was no way he could wear it now.

“Wait, I'll give you a blanket.” Carefully making his way over to what used to be the cabinet Jean had jumped on mere minutes earlier, Marco sifted through the splinters until he pulled free a checked blanket. He laughed a little at the way Jean was pouting, still staring at the ruined jacket in his hands. Following an impulse, Marco threw the blanket around Jean's shoulders, tugging it closely around him. Jean's gaze flicked up to his, features slack with surprise, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. They just looked at each other while Marco's heart throbbed exquisitely against his ribs. His fingers lingered over Jean's chest.

Jean cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks.”

“Go flirt somewhere else, I've got work to do,” came Levi's annoyed voice, shaking the two of them out of their eye contact.

“You're such a moment-ruiner,” Jean spat at the short guy, bringing his hands up to hold the blanket closed himself. After another mournful look at his jacket, he dropped it and went to pick up his discarded bow. “Let's go before he starts getting all Mary Poppins with his clean up.”

 

*

 

As they stepped outside into the chilly night air, Marco came to a stop on the sidewalk, with his feet sunken into heaps of fresh snow and his hands buried in the inside of his coat pockets. He tipped his face up toward the heavens and squinted up into the bustle of white descending on him, so thick and close now that he could no longer make out the stars in the dark expanse of the sky. A couple of snow flakes landed on his cheeks, soft sighs of cold against his skin, and Marco let his eyes shutter closed for a moment.

Jean's voice was a soothing caress. Oh, so quiet.

“You're really brave, you know?”

Turning his head to look at Jean, Marco opened his eyes and found that he was being watched. There was something warm in his gaze, open and earnest, and it thawed the harsh features of his face, the icy cockiness surrounding him.

“I nearly peed my pants,” Marco laughed, matching Jean's low tone. His breath rose from his lips in a puff of hot mist, mingling with the swirl of the snow flakes around them.

Jean was shaking his head. “Yeah, but you still fought. Isn't there some pretentious quote about how courage is being able to overcome fear or something?”

A smile stretched over Marco's face. “I wouldn't know, _I'm_ not pretentious.”

He kind of liked the rough cackle that shot out of Jean's mouth at that. It seemed like such a contrast to the graceful way he held himself. The guy was made up of an array of dichotomies. Gentle words and slurs. Slim frame and huge pride. Calming presence and heart-stopping smile. “Come on, Freckles, let's get you home.”

The snow crunched in that particular charming way under their shoes, the way it only did when it was fresh and new and exciting, as they made their way through the streets of Trost, talking in hushed voices as though careful not to disturb the serenity of the night.

Jean was still limping a little, leaving an uneven trail of footprints in the snow next to Marco's, but he didn't seem to be in much pain, more cold than anything, his thin frame shivering in the blanket. The closer they got to Marco's apartment, the slower their steps seemed to become, artificially elongating the distance with a mutual desire to preserve this point in time.

When they reached his apartment complex, Marco unlocked the door and pushed Jean into the only slightly warmer entrance hall without giving him a chance to start the awkward dance around the inevitable.

“Uh, Marco?” Jean asked, sounding insecure for the first time since he'd met him, twisting to look at Marco over his shoulder while he was being marched through to the elevator. Marco pressed the button and thankfully it dinged right after, the doors sliding open.

“You think I'm gonna leave you outside without a jacket in that cold?” he asked seriously, once they'd piled into the little cabin that started upwards with a hum.

Jean blinked at him for a moment, before he dropped his gaze to his toes. “Right.”

That wasn't what Jean had hoped to hear, Marco realized. He swallowed, thinking back to what Jean had told him about courage. “And I really,” Jean flicked his eyes back up to him when Marco began, chin still buried in the fluffiness of the snow-crusted blanket, “don't want you to go yet.”

The lift came to a halt and the doors slid open once again to reveal the long hallway leading to Marco's apartment. The way Jean bit his lip around a beaming smile as he stepped out of the elevator backwards, eyes locked with Marco's, was almost enough to leave him breathless.

And when the sun rose over Trost in the early morning hours, filtering through the blinds on his living room window and casting shadows over the smiling figure sprawled out on his sofa, coloring the flow of words between them in the warm beginning of something, Marco thought he wouldn't mind going breathless for a while.

 


End file.
